


The Two Who Cared

by ColebaltBlue



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:15:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColebaltBlue/pseuds/ColebaltBlue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caring about Sherlock Holmes was probably the only thing they had in common.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Two Who Cared

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meredydd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meredydd/gifts).



_Someday before Today_  
Lestrade stepped over the bodies contorted on the floor, not caring too much if a booted foot was placed just a touch too carelessly, stepping on fingers or nudging limbs. The grunts and whimpers told them that they were at least alive, as of now, he reasoned with himself. He scanned the darkened room, looking for a pale face and a mess of dark curly hair lost in a thick black coat. His torch shone about the room unapologetically as he looked. He spotted him, in a corner, eyes bloodshot and bleary, staring at him with a sneer on his face.

"So good of you to come, Detective Inspector," came the low voice, accent just a bit too cultured, words just a bit too precise.

"Get your bloody ass up, Holmes. So help me this is the last time I'll do this."

The man in the corner snorted. "Hardly," he muttered under his breath, but struggled to his feet anyway. Walking towards Lestrade with a lilting gait that was probably far more dignified in his mind than it was in reality.

Lestrade grabbed his arm as he approached and frog-marched him out the back and down the rickety stairs.

"I can't keep doing this, Holmes," he said in his ear, catching more than a whiff of raw unwashed human smell. Still, Holmes probably still smelled better than most people back in that room.

"Then don't, Lestrade. I don't need you to save me from a raid just because I slip you a piece of valuable information every now and again. Do I have an arrest record at all? Do you honestly think that's because I have never been caught up in a raid? Really, Lestrade, and you call yourself a Detective Inspector."

It was all Lestrade could do not to trip Holmes and send him tumbling down the stairs. The information the man gave him was valuable which was the primary reason he was slipping out the back door while his colleagues raided through the front. But that wasn't the only reason he was saving Sherlock Holmes's skinny ass. Despite his best intentions and going against every shred of common sense he possessed, Lestrade realized that he actually kind of liked the bugger. Next time, he swore to himself, he wasn't going to bother because honestly, this was getting a little ridiculous.

 _Two Months Before That_  
Lestrade stumbled into his usual coffee shop at six in the morning on his way home from work. Decaf, he told himself, decaf so he might sleep for a few hours before he'd head back to meet with the crown prosecutor for trial prep. He'd been up all night trying to find a break in a case that looked like it'd never have one. Double homicide. Rich family. Needed solving. Right.

"I'll just have..." he said, gesturing towards the counter. The usual girl was behind the machine and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Decaf," he added as an afterthought.

Two pounds appeared on the counter in front of him as he fumbled in his pocket for change. He followed the arm that had placed them there up to the sharp angular face hidden behind a mess of dark brown curls atop of a slender body wrapped in a jacket that was far too fine for this side of town.

He scowled. About ready to give the man a piece of his mind for cutting in front when he flashed a grin and Lestrade noticed his blown pupils. High. The man twitched and smirked, inclining his head towards a table.

Lestrade sighed, but took his paid-for coffee and headed over.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man said, extending his hand. Lestrade took it and sat down warily. "I have information on your case."

"Information?" Lestrade was intrigued, but people with information didn't generally know his routine, his favorite coffee shop, or the fact that he had been pulling his hair out all night looking for more information. Nor did they approach him, buy him a cup of coffee, and then offer said information freely.

"Yes, information."

"On what case?" Lestrade asked, suspicious.

"Oh don't be stupid. You're hardly stupid. If you were stupid you wouldn't have even gotten as far as you have, how pitiful an effort it is anyway. Do try to rise above every now and again, Gregory. Really."

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade said, starting to rise, "I don't think I have time-"

"You have plenty of time. You're not due back to meet Ms. Phillips until afternoon. An hour less sleep won't kill you."

Lestrade sat and appraised the man in front of him. He was clearly high on something, barely able to sit still and simply vibrating with energy. Most likely cocaine given the fact that his taste in clothing was expensive. It wasn't a far stretch to assume his taste in drugs was the same. But he had the sallow look of a heroin user, too thin, eyes just a little too wide, cheeks just a little too sunken in. It was possible he was connected to the case, but unlikely. How, Lestrade wanted to know, did he have information?

"All right, Sherlock Holmes. You have until I finish my coffee." Lestrade sat back and listened. In between the insults to him and his staff and the metropolitan police for general incompetence, Sherlock Holmes gave him all the information to solve his case.

 _Two Months After Someday_  
Dimmock's head appeared around Lestrade's doorjamb. "Hey, there is a kid, high as a kite, downstairs yelling that he's a friend of yours? I wouldn't have bothered you, but he had your warrant card number memorized."

Lestrade sighed and waved him off. He checked the intake log on his computer. Drugs bust. Right. Well, it was now or never and last time he had sworn it was going to be the last time. He pulled his case file towards him and tried to focus and not wonder what was happening with the probably quite upset Sherlock Holmes downstairs in holding.

Hours later he checked again and noticed that the record had disappeared. Lestrade rubbed his chin. I guess the little bastard was right, he thought to himself, he does have friends in even higher places than detective inspectors in New Scotland Yard.

"I do apologize, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sherlock seems to have no compunction against exploiting those who take an interest in him." Lestrade looked up at the sound of the careful tones. A tall, thin, balding man stood there in a brown suit, holding an umbrella. A young woman stood next to him, head buried in a PDA. He furrowed his brown in confusion.

"You see," the man continued, stepping into the room, the woman following him like a shadow, "he never could quite understand the nuances of, how shall I phrase it, relationship building? Or rather, he understood, but quite clearly couldn't be arsed."

Lestrade snorted in amusement at the vulgar word coming from such a man. The man quirked a smile in reply. The woman kept typing on her PDA and didn't react otherwise.

"You must be responsible?" he asked, gesturing towards his computer.

"As much as it pains me, it really is in everyones best interest that Sherlock Holmes's name remain out of your databases, Detective Inspector. It always upset... well nevermind that. I simply felt it prudent to apologize on behalf of my brother. He won't bother you again."

"Your brother?" Lestrade asked, surprised.

"Do you not see the family resemblance?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, unsure if he was being teased or not. He caught the woman's smirk and figured he was.

"I suppose it's all in the nose," he replied.

The man curled his lip in amusement and inclined his head.

"I can see why Sherlock likes you," he said, turning to go.

"Wait!" Lestrade called just as he stepped out the door. "Sherlock? He's really not all that much of a bother. And he does help now and again. It's just, some of his... choices make that help moot most of the time." Lestrade was unsure why he felt the need to clarify.

"I see," the man said, thoughtfully. "Well then, Detective Inspector, perhaps Sherlock may still occasionally bother you. But in the future, please do not hesitate to call if he shows up here. It would just really be much simpler for all involved if I could take care of things right away."

The woman looked up and stepped forward, producing a card from somewhere and leaving it on Lestrade's desk as the two of them turned and walked away. He picked it up. Mycroft Holmes, it read in plain black lettering. A phone number was on the back.

Lestrade shook his head. Sherlock Holmes had a brother that was considerably more strange than he was. And the brother seemed to care a great deal for him. Perhaps someday Sherlock Holmes would manage to find something to stabilize his life in such a way that allowed him to fulfill the potential that at least two people in the world saw in him.

 _Two Weeks after That_  
The next time Lestrade got the call from his sergeant that his freak was hanging out and bothering the investigators again, he picked up the phone and dialed the number. The man answered, much to Lestrade's surprise.

"Ah, Detective Inspector," he said, "I expect Sherlock is bothering your uniforms down by the quay? I shall send someone 'round to collect him. Please accept my invitation to drinks later this evening."

The phone clicked off and his cell phone beeped a second later with an incoming text. It was an address. Lestrade briefly debated ignoring the text. He was unsure what "drinks" with a man like Mycroft Holmes actually meant and, quite frankly, if he were up for it at all. Still, the man was intriguing for all his mysterious creepiness. The phone beeped again. And apparently he knew Lestrade's favorite type of whiskey. Right then, drinks with one Mycroft Holmes.

That evening he arrived at what could only be the posh London flat of Mycroft Holmes and was ushered into the front room by a demure older gentleman. The elder Holmes was seated before a fire, drink already in hand and a second one beside him. He gestured towards the seat across from him.

"Please accept my apologies, Gregory. Sherlock managed to slip by me." Mycroft looked perturbed at the thought. "He's sleeping it off upstairs. He was right about your missing woman though. You should find her easily in the country with her lover. You'll find that the kidnapping was simply her absconding with him. I'm sure you can work out the exact location."

Lestrade nodded and sipped his drink, Mycroft Holmes's eyes studying him in the dim room.

"Sherlock may occasionally be wrong," Mycroft said, breaking the silence a few minutes later.

Lestrade inclined his head, curious as to where this was going.

"But, I never am," Mycroft said, rising from his chair and removing the drink from Lestrade's hand. Lestrade could feel his heart beating in his chest as Mycroft took his hand and nodded towards the door. He hadn't even considered it until this very moment, but he knew that he wasn't going to say no.

 _Two Weeks After_  
"Oh, you didn't," came the completely disgusted voice from behind him. Lestrade whirled around and spotted Sherlock Holmes ducking under the crime scene tape.

"Sherlock, this is a secure area, you can't be here," he said, striding up to the man.

"Really, Lestrade, after fornicating with my brother, the least you could do is give me five minutes."

Lestrade stopped and stared in shock.

"Well, if everything else hadn't given you away, that certainly would have," Sherlock said with a sneer.

"Two," Lestrade said, refusing to take the bait.

"Five."

"Two, Sherlock."

"Fine, three." Sherlock replied, heading over to where the bodies from Lestrade's most recent case still lay. He would give him three minutes and then one minute more and hope that would be enough to convince Sherlock to never utter the phrase, 'fornicate with my brother,' ever again.

 _Now_  
It wasn't a relationship by any stretch of the imagination. It wasn't even dating. It was just a handful of evenings that started with dinner and drinks at Mycroft's London flat and ended with something more before Lestrade would head home to sleep. They were enjoying the fire for a few minutes before retiring to Mycroft's room.

"I hear Sherlock has found a flatmate," Mycroft said, staring into the fire.

"John Watson," Lestrade answered.

"Doctor John Watson," Mycroft corrected, almost as an afterthought.

"He seemed to be a practical enough bloke. Impressed with, but not awed by Sherlock. I wouldn't be surprised if it went well for him."

"I do hope it will," Mycroft said, softly. Lestrade let the silence drift for a moment, but stood when it was apparent that Mycroft would say no more on the subject. He reached forward and took his hand, leading into the bedroom.

"I think I need to meet the man," Mycroft said. "Perhaps when we are done here."

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "Be sure to do the whole mysterious man with an umbrella routine," he said with a grin. "You're a scary bastard when you do that."

Mycroft chuckled, a genuine smile gracing his face. "Perhaps I can come up with something suitably nerve-wracking for the man. Can't have him running off at the first sign of danger."

"He'll never keep up if he does," Lestrade answered as them crossed the threshold into Mycroft's bedroom and shut the door behind the two of them.


End file.
